


The Past Three Years

by torchwood221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:50:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torchwood221b/pseuds/torchwood221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago at Sherlock's grave - John saw and observed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Past Three Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisKenshin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisKenshin/gifts).



> Happy Birthday

It’s been three years since I died. Three years spent on my own hunting down Moriarty’s web because my world wouldn’t be safe until every last one of them was gone and now I’m home. I expected John to hit me, to shout at me until he lost his voice, to kick me out of the flat and make me stay in a hotel until he had time to decide if he could forgive me for my deception but he did none of those things. We picked up right where we left off as if I’d never been away.

He hasn’t even asked me to explain why I faked my death he just shrugged and said it was clearly a necessary evil.

I don’t understand John’s immediate acceptance of my return. Moriarty thought he was my greatest puzzle but he was wrong, John is.

I sleep even less now than I did before. There was always a chance of someone discovering my location and trying to take me down. I had to be ready to run at anytime. I never stayed in one place for too long, I couldn’t risk it. Getting home, getting back to John, was too important.

It’s three in the morning on my first night back when I finally decide I’m tired of feigning sleep and get out of bed to make myself busy. Somewhere in my mind palace I’ve tucked away all the experiments I haven’t had a chance to perform and I decide to take this opportunity to dig one out. The flat is always quiet this early in the morning so accessing my mind palace won’t require exiling John. As I go to find a comfortable seat I notice a stack of journals and a note with my name on it.

"Sherlock, you’re probably wondering why your sudden reappearance in my life hasn’t phased me. The reason for that is because I’ve known since I visited your grave asking for a miracle that you were alive. You always say that I see but don’t observe, well, you were wrong. That day at you’re grave, I saw you, I observed you. It took a long time to work it out, not how you did it, I’m not that clever, but why. Protecting me was obvious but I knew it had to be more complicated than that, it took a while but I finally put all the pieces together. I tried dropping hints to Mycroft that I knew you weren’t dead but he never gave me any indication that he knew as well but then again he’s Mycroft. The journals contain snippets of my life over the past three years. There were so many days when I’d find myself turning to ask for your opinion only to realize you weren’t there or reading about a murder and wondering how much faster you would have solved it. You don’t have to read them now (or ever) if you don’t want to, it’s completely up to you. When you’re ready to talk about the past three years I’ll listen, I know it must have been hard for you being alone for that long without even the skull to talk to. One last thing, I probably should have started here but knowing you you’ll be wide awake before I can rewrite this so I’m leaving it at the end so you’ll find this while I’m still asleep and won’t be able to tease me for being sentimental, thank you for giving me my miracle. John"

I’m taken aback by John’s letter, it explains so much and yet the possibility that he knew I was alive all this time never even crossed my mind.

I abandon all thoughts of conducting an experiment and start reading John’s journals. He has clippings of news articles as well as hand written entries. They’re nothing like his blog posts these are so much more personal. He doesn’t always address his entries to me; sometimes he just starts writing.

Ten pages in I realize that I’ve been commenting aloud even though he’s not awake to hear me and that’s when I find a pen and go back to the beginning and start adding in my thoughts. I don’t even realize the sun has come up until I hear John coming downstairs and I quickly collect the journals and lock myself in my room. While John is in the bathroom I dress and leave the flat with his journals and my pen in hand. I head to a nearby library and find a quiet place to finish my task.

When I’ve read and commented on the last journal entry there’s roughly fifty pages of space at the end, space I decide to use to start writing about the past three years. I’m out of space before I get through three months and start writing out the rest on my phone and when that is on the verge of dying I search out some paper and a handful of pens.

By the time I’ve gotten through all of it it’s almost dark. John’s probably wondering where I am and so I head back to the flat. I write him a note like the one he wrote me during the cab ride. I’m sure I look like a bumbling uni professor as I climb the stairs without trying to drop anything but if that’s what John thinks he says nothing. He watches me search around for my phone charger and once it’s plugged in I send the text I wrote there to the printer. I have to change the ink cartridge and add more paper at what I estimate isn’t even halfway through.

He’s been watching me this whole time and even though my note is on top of his journals he’s apparently going to wait until I’m done before reading it. When it’s all printed I add it to the handwritten portion and hand only my note to John.

I don’t watch him read it opting to retreat to my room to give him the same kind of space he gave me. I know him well enough to know he’ll read the journals but its all a matter of when. There’s a knock at my door a few minutes later and he asks me if I want to go to Angelo’s. The only comment he makes about my note or reading the journals is that he’ll look at them later.

It’s three in the morning on my second night back and I’m tired of laying in bed. I leave my room and am halfway through the kitchen when I realize John is sitting in my chair reading the last few pages I’ve commented on.

I attempt to retreat back into my room before he notices me but I find myself unable to move because John isn’t just rereading his journals he’s annotating them. I stand there frozen hoping that my final comments in response to his will be well received.

John’s final comment was dated last night and consisted of just three words - I love you. My reply required a few more and was added to on the cab ride back from the library - I love you too. Will you marry me?

I watch as he writes his response before flipping to the next page. As well as I know his handwriting I honestly don’t know what he’s written next to my proposal. I finally regain my ability to move but it’s too late because he’s noticed me standing there and is making his way over.

"If it’s alright with you I’ll read about your three years at a more reasonable hour," he tells me handing me the last journal and opening it to his last page. My eyes dart to the bottom of the page to see just what he’s written in response - "oh god yes."


End file.
